


Through New Eyes

by bushgirl (cotterford1)



Category: Connie Willis Time Travel Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:10:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cotterford1/pseuds/bushgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Dunworthy thinks it's time the historians enjoyed themselves and sends them back to a 1920s party ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through New Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tricksterquinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterquinn/gifts).



Through New Eyes

Verity didn’t think she’d ever spent Christmas – or at least one of the days leading up to Christmas – in a more festive setting. Outside the mansion, snow was falling softly to the ground. Verity was standing by the window in the ballroom, looking out at the snow rather than at the boisterous  bunch of dancers.  She jumped as someone tapped her shoulder.

“Isn’t it a waste of that beautiful flapper’s costume just to stand looking out of the window?” Ned asked, passing her a glass of champagne.

“Probably,” Verity laughed. Wardrobe really had turned up trumps this time and supplied them with gorgeous 1920s clothes. Ned looked smart in a tuxedo; Verity’s knee-length, dropped-waist purple dress showed off her slender figure. She glanced across at the dance floor and spotted Polly in a blue dress, Blackbottoming with the best of them.

“Mr Dunworthy was right,” she said, nodding towards Polly. “It’s done us all good to come here. To let off steam.”

“Show Polly and the others that time-travelling isn’t all bad?”

Verity sipped her champagne. “Yes. They’ve had a rough time. I feel a bit of a fraud, don’t you, Ned? After all, time-travel has been a lot of fun for us.”

“Speak for yourself!” Ned retorted. “I’ve put up with Lady Schrapnell for a very long time. I lost count of the jumble-sales I went to, looking for that hideous bishop’s bird-stump.”

“You know what I mean,” said Verity. “Polly went through hell on her last assignment. And I don’t think Kivrin’s ever been the same since she was trapped in the Black Death. That’s why it’s good Mr Dunworthy insisted we all had a bit of fun with history.”

All the same, Verity couldn’t help thinking there must be some ulterior motive. Mr Dunworthy always had a reason – for everything. And, although he’d organised this year’s historians’ Christmas party, and insisted everyone came unless they had an exceedingly good excuse, Mr Dunworthy had remained in Oxford in 2060. And goodness knows Mr Dunworthy needed to unwind as much as any of them – a lot more than she and Ned did, Verity thought. Never mind Kivrin Engle not being the same following her return from the Black Death; Mr Dunworthy had been a shadow of his former self since all the drops to World War 2. Next time he opened up the Net for pleasure, Verity thought, she’d _push_ him into it. Make him relax.

“Enjoying yourselves, eh, what?”

Verity jumped again. A dark-haired man in a Tuxedo similar to Ned’s introduced himself. “Name’s Albert Blight. Call me Alby. Topping place, eh, what?”

Verity thought instantly of Lord Peter Wimsey and stifled a giggle.

“Friends of the host are you?” Alby asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Not exactly,” Ned said.

“Not exactly’s right, old chap! Nobody knows Nick well – not really well.” Alby took a puff of his cigarette and Verity tried hard not to show her disgust: that was the worst thing about the twentieth century, all that cigarette smoke. How _did_ the contemps stick it?

“What does he do for a living?” Ned asked.

“Again, no-one knows, old chap. But it must be jolly lucrative for him to be able to afford this pile, eh, what?”

Indeed, Verity thought. The mansion reminded her of the Cluedo board: ballroom, conservatory, library, dining-room … “What do you mean?” she asked. “No-one knows?”

Alby glanced dismissively at Verity and directed his next remarks at Ned. “I’ve been to several of Nick’s parties and I’m yet to meet anyone who really knows him. I haven’t met anyone who works with him, anyone who was at Oxford with him, anyone who – ”

“Has slept with him?” Verity suggested with a giggle.

“Verity,” Ned reproved. “You’re embarrassing Mr Blight.”

“Not at all, old chap,” said Alby, rolling his eyes. “And call me Alby.”

“He sounds like Jay Gatsby,” Verity said.

“Who?” asked Ned.

“From _The Great Gatsby_. By – “ Verity stopped abruptly, for she couldn’t remember whether or not _The Great Gatsby_ had been published yet. It was Christmas 1925 and they were here for one night only, at a party in a mansion that Mr Dunworthy had visited recently in 2060. He’d read about the legendary 1920s parties in a history of the village.

“I doubt if Jay Gatsby, whoever he is, knows our Nick either,” Alby said. He started to talk to Ned about shares and Verity, bored, decided to excuse herself. “Don’t affect history by giving him insider knowledge on the 1929 Wall Street Crash” she said in a speech bubble to her husband. Ned smiled back; he’d got the message.

Verity didn’t feel like dancing. For one thing, she was a little time-lagged and, for another, her feet hurt – silly 1920s high heels. She wanted to find somewhere quiet where she could slip them off and not create a _faux pas_. So she left the bustle of the ballroom and tried a few doors on the first floor of the mansion before she found the library.

It was beautiful. There were shelves and shelves of leather-bound books which would have cost a fortune back then in 1925 – and definitely in 2060, where only the universities and the fabulously wealthy had real books; everyone else kept their collection on an electronic reader.  Verity crossed over to the shelves and started to scan the spines carefully, wondering if F Scott Fitzgerald might be among them.

“You like reading, do you?”

Verity jumped yet again, prompting her to wonder whether she should find something to steady her nerves – or perhaps it was the effects of the champagne making her jumpy.

A young man of about 30, tall with swept-back blond hair, drew close to her. “You seem interested in the books,” he commented.

“Yes,” Verity admitted. “I don’t often – “

“See a library this full?” he finished for her. “Don’t think I’m not aware of my good fortune.” He held out his hand. “I’m Nick Goodman.” The owner of the mansion, Verity thought. The man that no-one knew.

“Pleased to meet you,” Verity she said.

“I don’t think we’ve met, old thing,” said Nick. She thought she’d never tire of the upper-class British accent of the 1920s. It was a shame it had died out, she thought – everyone sounded like they were reciting stilted dialogue on stage.

“I’m Verity Kindle. And no,” added Verity, blushing. “We haven’t met. I came with – “

“Someone I work with?” he prompted with a wide smile.

Verity remembered Alby’s comment about never having met anyone who worked with Nick Goodman. “No,” she said. “I’m with a party of people. I’m not sure – “

“Anyone’s welcome here, whether they know me or not,” said Nick. “I give regular parties and people know they can just turn up and have a good time. They don’t need to know me. So just enjoy yourself, Miss Kindle.” He gave a little bow of the head and headed towards the door of the library. “Feel free to borrow whatever you like,” he said. “You can always return it to me any time.”

When he’d gone, Verity continued her search for F Scott Fitzgerald and found a blue-spined first edition of _The Great Gatsby_. She thumbed through it, delighted at holding an almost brand new first-edition Fitzgerald in her hands. Then she decided it was time to return to the ballroom. There was only another hour before they had to return to the drop – otherwise, like Cinderella, they’d turn into a pumpkin. For want of a better expression.

                                                                                *

“So what does he do? Banker? Stockbroker? He must have made his pile from somewhere.”

But no-one could answer her questions for definite, and Ned was frowning at her, warning her silently that she was drawing too much attention to herself.  Various people, clustered around the gaudily lit Christmas tree in the conservatory, hazarded a guess at Nick Goodman’s profession: successful gold prospector, recently returned from Australia; lawyer; doctor; publisher; writer of risqué novels under a pseudonym.

Ned nudged Verity. “We need to go.”

The drop was in the woods on the edge of the estate. The Balliol party retrieved their coats and were glad of the warmth of the fur when they stepped outside. The snow carpeted the ground, with the aid of a lantern, they all walked across the lawn towards the woods, Kivrin and Polly giggling and showing the effects of a few glasses of champagne. They stared walking through the woods, and Verity noticed Kivrin suddenly shiver. She’s remembering her drop, she realised.

Ten minutes into the thick woodland and Verity could see the shimmer. Thank goodness, she thought. In a moment she’d be in 2060 and she could discard her shoes in favour of her own more comfortable ones. And it was only a few days till Christmas Day.

“There! I knew I was right! You’re time-travellers, aren’t you?”

Verity whirled round with the rest of them to face Nick Goodman.

“I’ve been watching you all tonight,” he said. “Nobody, absolutely nobody, knew who on earth you were. And this is a village where everyone knows everyone from every village around. Apart from me, of course.  So that’s how I knew you were from the future.”

“I don’t know whether – “ Ned began, and realised he could still see the shimmer.

“The shimmer,” said Nick Goodman fondly. “I remember reading about that.”

“Reading about it?” Kivrin prompted.

“In a history of time-travel text. Do you know James Dunworthy?” When they all nodded, dumbly, he said, “I’d like to meet the great man. Tell him what’s to come. Though in my more melancholic moments,,” he added sadly, “I think it’s best he doesn’t know. Like the poor blighters here in 1925 England. Doing the Charleston without a care in the world, not knowing that the depression and another war are just around the corner.”

“What year are you from?” Ned asked. They were all, he realised, staring at Nick Goodman as if he were a ghost.

“2082.”

 _“2082?”_ The response came from almost everyone; they exchanged glances and looked nervous.

“But you can’t be,” said Polly.

“Why not?” Nick said. “You don’t think time-travel ends with you, do you?”

“So,” said Ned uncomfortably, “what is round the corner for us? Our equivalent of the depression and another war?”

“No more energy to power time-travel,” he said. “That’s how I got stranded here – well, I wasn’t exactly stranded. I expected it. There’d been one or two others who didn’t come back, and there were so many problems with time-travel devices breaking down. So I decided if I was going to end up stranded, I’d be prepared – so I came back to my favourite era. Made sure I was well set up to be able to afford this place.”

“You mean the Net let you bring money through?” asked Polly in disbelief.

“The Net? Oh no – I came through in quite another way!” said Nick Goodman. “The Net wasn’t the only way of travelling by then – and neither were historians the only people to travel. Time-travel failed as a commercial venture in its early days, but the second wave of business interest was more successful. So I was able to take forged money through. And I set myself up well, as you’ve seen. I modelled myself on my favourite character from literature. I made sure my parties were legendary – that’s why you’re here, aren’t you?”

Verity nodded with the rest, thinking: I knew it was deliberate. Mr Dunworthy never sends you back in time without a reason.

“Are you coming with us?” asked Gerald Phipps uncertainly. “I’m not sure that the Net will – “

“Oh, no – I might meet my extremely youthful self if I were to go back to your time,” said Nick Goodman. “No – I want you to warn Mr Dunworthy for me. Give him this” – he handed Kivrin, who was nearest, some typed sheets of paper – “and thank him for sending you all to find me. Tell him I’ve very happy with my life here in 1925.”

 “What about the depression? The war?” Ned asked as they all moved towards the shimmer.

“I’ll survive. I have the advantage – or disadvantage depending how you look at it – of knowing what’s going to happen. As do you all now,” said Nick Goodman with a sad smile. “Be sure to give my letter to Mr Dunworthy. And tell him – “

They’d reached the drop. “Tell him what?” Verity called, before she stepped in.

“Tell him his was the greatest era of time-travel,” he called back.


End file.
